


What selfishness, to be alone

by BlackEyedGirl



Category: Fringe
Genre: Ficlet, Masturbation, Other, POV Female Character, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/pseuds/BlackEyedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She does this for herself, afterwards. [Post 3.09 Marionette, written for Porn Battle]</p>
            </blockquote>





	What selfishness, to be alone

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Note:** While there is no non-con or assault present or implied in this ficlet, it does deal with recovery from the canon violation of Olivia's life, and with the tone/language I felt that might be something I should flag up as an fyi. (And it definitely does deal with betrayal, if this is something that might trigger you)

She doesn’t know if the other Olivia used it. Why would she, with Peter right there for the taking? But maybe some nights he wasn’t there; maybe they used it together? Olivia shudders, wrapping the thing in two plastic bags and throwing it in the trash. There aren’t enough cleaning products in the world to make that okay.

She goes shopping. She’s prepared to have to glare – she would do this online, normally, rather than have to stare someone in the eyes and say ‘yes, this one. I need this.’ But the woman behind the counter smiles at her, and puts it away in a brown paper bag (recyclable) and nods as if this is fine. It’s okay to come down here, in a hurry before the shop closes and she has to try again with just her fingers to chase the memories away. It’s going to be okay.

She can’t lie in the bed. The sheets are clean now but she can’t lie down there and think of anything else but them. It’s stupid, she knows that. She could ask Peter where she can stand safely in this place, what she can touch; she won’t. She lies against the foot of her couch with her legs spread open and the candles lit. The stereo plays old jazz that looks unmoved since she left but she can’t prove it. She can’t prove anything except that this is her body. Olivia knows that. This is her body, her scarred neck with the tattoo she hasn’t removed yet. Her hair with the dye job that’s probably killing it but she wasn’t going to stay a redhead for any longer than she had to (Peter had liked the red hair). Her fingers slide in, warm, slow, opening herself up. She fires her gun on every case now but she’ll never be a sharpshooter – they’re rough but uncalloused, slippery with lube.

It’s smooth, pink plastic, too bright. She can’t see the colour in the candlelight anyway. It hums and she might worry about scandalising the neighbours but God knows what they’ve heard from up here lately.

This is my hand, she thinks, palming over my breasts. My nipples, pulling tight under the press of nails I filed this morning. This is my body. This, if nothing else.

Her breath picks up, little gasps she’s spent months not making, months analysing every noise she made in case she gave herself away. This is my voice. My chest, rising and falling, my heart racing. This is my blood, hot under my skin.

She catches the little button with her thumb, speeding it up. Close. Her nails dig crescent moons into her palms, leaving red marks. She doesn’t need to touch it any more, she clenches tight around it. These are my toes curling into my rug; this is the flutter as I twist, turn, scream. This is me.

The candles are burning low. Olivia exhales, sliding the vibrator out, and walks to the bathroom. It’s slick, between her thighs, and she washes the mess away, makes herself clean. Her legs feel loose, liquid. When she laughs, the only echoes here are hers. It feels like reclamation.


End file.
